s Flight, and the War Is Brought to a Close

We of peaceful London City have never beheld--and please God never
shall witness--such a scene of hurry and alarm, as that which Brussels
presented. Crowds rushed to the Namur gate, from which direction the
noise proceeded, and many rode along the level chaussee, to be in
advance of any intelligence from the army. Each man asked his
neighbour for news; and even great English lords and ladies
condescended to speak to persons whom they did not know. The friends
of the French went abroad, wild with excitement, and prophesying the
triumph of their Emperor. The merchants closed their shops, and came
out to swell the general chorus of alarm and clamour. Women rushed to
the churches, and crowded the chapels, and knelt and prayed on the
flags and steps. The dull sound of the cannon went on rolling,
rolling. Presently carriages with travellers began to leave the town,
galloping away by the Ghent barrier. The prophecies of the French
partisans began to pass for facts. "He has cut the armies in two," it
was said. "He is marching straight on Brussels. He will overpower the
English, and be here to-night." "He will overpower the English,"
shrieked Isidor to his master, "and will be here to-night." The man
bounded in and out from the lodgings to the street, always returning
with some fresh particulars of disaster. Jos's face grew paler and
paler. Alarm began to take entire possession of the stout civilian.
All the champagne he drank brought no courage to him. Before sunset he
was worked up to such a pitch of nervousness as gratified his friend
Isidor to behold, who now counted surely upon the spoils of the owner
of the laced coat.

The women were away all this time. After hearing the firing for a
moment, the stout Major's wife bethought her of her friend in the next
chamber, and ran in to watch, and if possible to console, Amelia. The
idea that she had that helpless and gentle creature to protect, gave
additional strength to the natural courage of the honest Irishwoman.
She passed five hours by her friend's side, sometimes in remonstrance,
sometimes talking cheerfully, oftener in silence and terrified mental
supplication. "I never let go her hand once," said the stout lady
afterwards, "until after sunset, when the firing was over." Pauline,
the bonne, was on her knees at church hard by, praying for son homme a
elle.

When the noise of the cannonading was over, Mrs. O'Dowd